@comfrtcrowd asked: 💋: for our muses to share a kiss under the mistletoe FITZ KEES :knife: // festive scenarios
THEY'RE AT A CHRISTMAS PARTY, or rather, a festive excuse to have a party— the only real indications of the season are the decorations hung up in every corner, the spiked eggnog, and the holiday songs spaced between the music. Still, it's the kind of event Michael would usually pass on, if not for the reason behind the slightly intoxicated smile that colors his expression now. Everyone is too caught up in reaching the bottoms of their own drinks to notice the two of them ( except for Annie, whose eyes Michael has caught and tried to shoo away a few times now— he'll apologize later ). It makes it easier for Michael to relax, too, as if he and Fitz are the only ones in the room.
Wincing as he takes a swig after they ventured to the kitchen, Michael shoots him a look that clearly says he did not expect the festive drink to have as much of a kick as it did. "Fuck, that's strong. It's like, 10% egg and 90%... nog? Is that part supposed to mean the alcohol? Why the hell is it called that..." He proceeds to laugh at himself, at least self-aware enough to realize how stupid he sounds, meandering back towards the the real party. But... he decides to linger in the open doorway, leaning back against the wall and turning his gaze towards Fitz again. The kitchen is mostly empty, the kitchen is nice. Lights hang in the window above the sink, the music is softer, and for the first time in a long while... the looming presence of the winter holidays feels a little lighter.
Fitz meets him in the doorway, and Michael almost asks if they should just stay in there, when it becomes clear that he's seen something that Michael hasn't, from the raised brows and slightly-tilted smile ( contained, but amused, also intoxicated ). "What? Do I have nog on my face?" Michael comments, before finally glancing upwards... and then he sees it. Oh.
It's a small garland of mistletoe, hung over the doorway ( a real one— not the mass-produced material with bear faces drawn into the berries that still sits in his fucking home ), and Michael is speechless for a moment. How did he not see that? It's obvious, and as stupid as plenty of other hollow traditions ( he has hazy memories of his parents getting caught under the thing in their living room, when they actually seemed in love... ). No one is watching them, nothing holds them to the garland's silent demands. That thought only makes Michael realize it's all the more reason to follow it. Plus, this isn't foreign to them. They're, well... they're something— they haven't really talked about it. "Well? Can't hurt, right..."
Their lips meet in a rush of heat against the chill, winter air, flooding to his face and flaring through his chest with the stuttering pace of his pulse. Neither of them are entirely steady, the kiss has the subtle taste of alcohol and vanilla, and despite himself, Michael melts into the affection. Eyes still shut, the kiss deepens. He finds Fitz's clothing and intertwines his fingers with the fabric, pulling closer ( the small action, absent of usual hesitance, admits more than he ever says out loud ). A low, content noise hums at the back of his throat, and they break away only for needed air. That might be the most romantic fucking thing he's ever done. He'll blame the dizziness on the alcohol. He almost wants to say something, but more than that, he doesn't want to ruin it, so he just smiles instead, finding Fitz's hand to brush against his own.
